


there ain't no cure for love

by cicak



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Argentine Tango, Cunnilingus, Diana Burnwood's Black Dress is another character in this so its basically a threesome, F/M, Mendoza - Freeform, cunnilingus for days, hitman 3 spoilers, those golden hours between tangoing and meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: In the golden hour above a vineyard in Mendoza, two "strangers" slip away for a tryst.
Relationships: Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Comments: 22
Kudos: 108





	there ain't no cure for love

The end of a mission is usually the time where he focuses on his heart rate, keeping it low and slow until he’s exfiltrated into safety. His success has always been down to his ability to control his adrenaline, and sometimes it takes a few days for it to catch up with him. This time, he has nowhere to go, no mission parameters, no side-doors left conveniently unlocked. He moves across the estate, breathing slowly, until he spots Diana, standing in the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by all the high and mighty of Providence, their judgement bouncing off her. 

No exfil just yet then, he thinks, as the band strikes up a rhythm and Diana gestures for him to join her in the dance. He expects her to keep her distance, to do a polite sway-on-the-spot, but when he feels her yield to his lead, he takes the first step of the tango, and there’s a moment where there’s something in Diana’s eyes that he struggles to place for a moment; surprise, surprise that he knew the steps and could lead. If she asked, he would have reminded her that he can dance most formal dances, that she arranged the lessons for him sixteen years ago for a job in Buenos Aires, and that he’s been known to join a dance floor as needed. Dance is just controlled movement, and controlled movement is what the two of them _do_ , even if she usually leads their kind of choreography, it is still just moving the body. 

They settle into a simple repeating pattern of figures, a turn, a few crosses in amongst the basic back and forth as they talk low, their chests pressed close as is the custom, their faces closer than they’d ever been before. He manages to keep up as she gives him plans, does the walks and the ochos keeps their bodies pressed together as his instructor taught him all those years ago. Diana whispers a location as they do a turn, and then surprises him when her leg hooks around his in their first gancho, and then surprises him as she slides her foot down his calf. In the language of dance, perhaps not an explicit come on, but in the language of Diana Burnwood, something unique, unprecedented. They dance with the eyes of every enemy on them as the question posed hangs between them, one he barely knows how to answer other than in clumsily reciprocated improvisation.

If this was a normal party perhaps they could have slunk away together at that point, perhaps with Diana stumbling slightly as if the combination of the wine and the scenery and this handsome stranger had overwhelmed her. He has been surprised by her skills today, she would be more than capable of playing the part. She would lean against him, he could have wrapped an arm around her shoulders until they were out of sight. It would have been easy.

Instead, everyone around them is Providence, they’re all watching her and probably having questions about who he is, many of them are familiar faces from the last few years. People who lost lovers and family and business associates by his hand and her direction, their combined cleverness causing disruption and chaos. 

The band plays the final measure, and as they break apart to polite applause from the watching crowd, he bows down low and kisses her gloved hand, holding her gaze and hoping it was answer enough.

Diana forces her face into a grimace of embarrassment that he can tell is fake, and in a normal tone of voice (so much louder than just a moment ago), she excuses herself and walks off without looking back, heading for the ladies restroom. 

He dances with another woman for long minutes, but he can’t get the rhythm, the music on some sort of delay for him now, so he excuses himself after a single turn and walks at random down a set of stairs, until he finds himself in the bar. He gets a glass of wine and keeps walking until he’s on a viewing platform looking out at the mountains and the vines and lets the sound of the party wash over him. The malbec is good, full bodied and complex and dry as a bone. He forces himself to think about it and only it until the sun just just starts to head back down towards the horizon and the sounds of the party start to change, the first yells floating down from the house as the bodies are discovered and the people stuffed in wardrobes come back to consciousness, naked and confused.

He loosens his tie, undoes his top button, and wanders away, taking the long way round, putting a little sway in his step for plausible deniability, and from the tango lingering in his limbs.

* * *

He's long used to Diana looking at him through screens, just a talking head-and-shoulders, all polish and gloss and pixelated round the edges. He would only see her in the flesh occasionally, usually when the worst was happening and it was them against catastrophe once again, but still it would be in passing, catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye or catching her red hair reflected in a window. This changed when they were hiding in Berlin, where for the first time since training they spent whole, gluttonous days with each other, and in that time he saw the whole gamut of her, from her tired eyes in the morning to her reading glasses last thing at night, her hand cream by her laptop and low calorie sweetener by the kettle and even, once, the sleek navy pajamas and matching robe she wore to sleep, when he caught her one morning as he came back from a run.

He thought that there were no other versions of Diana Burnwood that could shock him, until today.

Even as she comes into view down the path to the overlook, she takes his breath away. That dress cut all the way up that show legs that go all the way down, the neckline that frames collarbones and scapulae strong and sculpted enough to make artists weak at the knees, her long neck seeming even longer with the way she’s pulled her hair back, and his brain just can’t get enough of all three dimensions of her loveliness that encapsulate the dry wit and beautiful mind he's long loved. He'll never forget the way she touched his hand, and then a few hours later she was in his arms, dancing, and now....

She’s backlit by the golden hour light as he approaches, and she holds her hands out, she doesn’t smile or say anything, just welcomes him back into her arms again, and they dance to a half heard tune from the band that carries on the wind from across the valley. It’s some basic waltz at first, one two three one two three, a box drawn with feet, his memory supplies from those long-ago lessons, and 47 feels awkward and stiff, unable to relax, to read the situation. The magic, it feels, is starting to wane.

Diana always knows what to do. Her soft, gentle hand takes his jaw, cradles it like something precious, and her body then melts against his somehow, and when she takes his hand once more it's a tango, and the steps call to him from somewhere primal. It's easy to take on a role, one for each of them, the gaucho and the lady of the night, dancing as audition and foreplay both, and then it's just natural, when the steps slow again, to lean down and kiss her.

Her lipstick was freshly reapplied, her own nervous tic, he realises, even if it's just the colour of her own lips, the colour they turn after he kisses it off is better, and he almost said it before realising what it means, that her mouth is flushed and plumped and a pretty-pink from _his mouth_ , and that realisation hits him like a punch to the gut.

It would be easier for him if she kept up the ruse their bodies started. If she called him her gaucho, played the part of the working girl and took the lead in taking him round the back and used that slit in her skirt for easy access, murmured encouragement in her flawless Spanish as he played a part to protect his heart as it got its deepest desire, but when has she made it easy for him? When has any of this been easy? Why is he thinking about himself, when this is Diana Burnwood, the constant ascendant, the viper within, who has done all this work to save the world.

He swallows, nervous, mouth wet but somehow his throat is so dry, but Diana has always been a good handler, the best in the business. The sun is setting over the mountains, and the light spills heavy and liquid down over the vines, golden and dripping like honey.

The ground beneath his knees gives slightly as he drops, a millennia of volcanic ash and human blood making this soil some of the most fertile in the world. He doesn't look up, not yet, but her thighs are right there beneath the heavy satin, and he starts with his hands, trailing them up her calves, her skin easy to touch. Her thighs though, soft and welcoming as she moves slightly, shifts to give him room, the heavy fabric parting and his throat is dry all over again as he realises what he's doing, what he can't wait to do.

He brushes a kiss against the inside of her knee, and she catches her breath. He resists looking up in case it breaks the spell. He kisses, slowly, taking his time, up and up, until there's nowhere left to go. She's wet, her underwear shiny, black satin like her dress and her gloves and it seems rude to not make like the hundreds of vineyard guests below and give in to tasting.

She puts a cool, satin-encased hand on his head to balance herself as he slides her open with one thick finger, and as curls his tongue in its wake, he is glad that he doesn’t have hair, because the way she’s grasping at him would hurt. She keeps hold even as he sweats and she swears under her breath in between tiny high pitched hitches of bitten down pleasure and he swears he can hear the tiny pop-pop-pop as the stitches on her fingers burst under the pressure. She's like the rolling hills, luscious and delicious and yet poetic comparisons are nothing to her taste, to her response, to the feeling of both her hands clutching his head to stay upright and keep him there where he belongs, as his mouth takes her apart and his hands grip the back of her thighs to do his part keeping this going, because there’s no way he could stop, he can't stop, won't stop, it doesn’t matter that his suit is ruined, it doesn’t matter if providence has worked out who he is, none of it matters as she keens and whimpers and her hands against his head spasm as her thighs lock and she comes hard against his wet, soaking mouth, holding him in place, even as she near drowns him with how wet she is, he keeps going, until she tells him to stop with a cracked, wavering voice, calls him beautiful things in a whimper that makes his eyes sting.

When he finally looks up, she's that perfect pink and relaxed and so fond, he has to get up off his knees, kiss her and tangle his fingers in her half undone hair, show her how much he feels, show her twenty two years of longing, of revelation. His arousal is somewhere beyond desperation, and he tries to tell her, but she whispers "I know" against his lips when they break for air, as if there was any doubt.

The sun is setting, and they need to stop. They have a meeting in a few hours, part of Diana’s grand plan to end Edwards, to save the world. She will take him in her hands again, and use him to her ends, and he will come willingly.

“Later”, she says as she undoes her hair and prepares to put it back where it was, and it's a promise.

When, a couple of hours later, he's dying in that fertile soil by her beautiful hand, and she bends over him and spits "agent" with that plummy, cruel voice, still in her satin dress and ruined underwear, the full sensory impression of her is the last thing he feels before he blacks out.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who had 'cicak wrote Mendoza porn within 12 hours of finishing the level' tick it off your list. Wrote this in a fever dream this morning before work, polished in my lunch hour, rewrote it this evening with a glass of Malbec, as seemed fitting. 
> 
> Title is a Leonard Cohen song, what can I say, that blue raincoat in Chongqing reawakened the Cohen obsessive who has been slumbering since he died in 2016. "I don't need to be forgiven for loving you so much, Its written in the scriptures, its written there in blood", just fuck me up.
> 
> If you liked this, please let me know in the comments! I also have three other Hitman fics, [even steak don't cry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083105), [run like a river to the sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301670) and [in every life a little rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966176), and I will definitely be writing more, so stay tuned!


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